Sten and the Mutineers

by Allan Cole

  Instead of replying, Sten turned back to the crew. “What about it, shipmates?” he said. “Do you want to hear me out? Or lay hands on us and see if we’re bluffing?”

  A murmur swept the group. Finally, Shaklin came forward.

  “We’ll hear you out, Captain,” he said. “But you’d better make it good. Zheng wasn’t lying when he said Venatora made us a handsome offer.”

  “Obviously, the Emperor can beat any monetary offer she made,” Sten said. “I’m authorized to top any amount by twenty percent.”

  Another murmur swept the group. There were smiles at first. But then cold reality sank in.

  “What about amnesty?” Shaklin said. “For some of us, that’s more important than the money.”

  “Don’t you be saying what’s more important, Holy Man,” Rual broke in.

  Shaklin turned to the others. “What about it? Am I right? Isn’t amnesty the most important thing?”

  Everyone quickly agreed that it was.

  “In that case,” Sten said, “take a look at this.”

  He held up the document. “You’re Bishop Shaklin, right?”

  Shaklin nodded, took the document and opened it. As he scanned it several of his congregants and a couple of the crewmembers came forward to peer over his shoulder.

  Then they all looked up Sten, gaping in surprise.

  “Why, this…this…this is a Court Martial filing,” Shaklin said.

  “Vhatt’s that?” Zheng cried. “Court martial? I vill not be court martialed!”

  Sten laughed. “Among your many problems, Zheng,” he said, “is that you suffer from delusions of reference. Big time.”

  Zheng sputtered. “Delusions? Delusions? Vhatt’s this delusions?”

  “He means that this is for Gregor, Zheng,” Shaklin said, “not you.”

  Zheng and Rual looked at Shaklin, then Sten and Alex. Flabbergasted.

  Sten said, “One of my jobs today is to open proceedings for the court martial of Captain Gregor Wichman.”

  The mutineers gaped at Sten. Of all things, no one ever dreamed Gregor would face a court martial board.

  Shaklin was the first to recover. “Open proceedings?” he said. “What does that mean exactly?”

  “It means that Lt. Kilgour and I are to take statements from you and others members of the crew. We have already gathered extensive evidence of Captain Gregor’s illegal dealings at Port Chinen and other areas on the Flame’s shipping route. Which is the main reason for our delay in getting to you.”

  Sten let his gaze sweep across the group, then added, “When we’re done here, I will immediately return to my ship and report my findings directly to the Eternal Emperor.”

  Zheng shook his head. “Nonsense, this is,” he said. “No, not nonsense but a trick. You will tie us up here with the gutt damned red tape and then—”

  Shaklin interrupted. “What about that, Captain?” he said. “Zheng makes a good point. We all know about Imperial red tape. We’ve all been victims of it one time or another.”

  There were mutters of agreement from the other members of the crew. Rual started to interrupt, but Zheng gave her the elbow.

  “Yes, Captain?” he said. “Vhatt do you have to say about that?”

  “I’m dealing directly with the Eternal Emperor,” Sten said. “So there will be no red tape. I’ll have a decision for you within 24 E-hours.”

  “And if you don’t?” Shaklin pressed.

  Sten shrugged. “Then, obviously, you’ll take Venatora’s offer and the Emperor will be out of luck.”

  “We’ll want guarantees,” Shaklin said.

  “And you’ll have them,” Sten said.

  “I don’t like it,” Zheng said.

  “You got that right,” Rual chimed in.

  “What do you have to lose?” Sten said. “Either I deliver, or I don’t.”

  There was great deal of back and forth argument, with Zheng and Rual pushing for refusal.

  But Sten had undercut their authority so much that, in the end, it was agreed. Sten and Alex could move through the ship and interview the crew, gathering evidence again Gregor.

  While they argued, Shaklin took them aside. “You’ll have to move fast,” he said. “Two hours at the most. Otherwise they’ll be at your throats.”

  “Two hours it is, then,” Sten said. “But to speed things up, I want to talk to Gregor first.”

  “He’ll just lie,” Shaklin said.

  “That just makes it better for your cause, Bishop,” Sten said. “Because he’ll be lying under oath. That’s perjury. And in this case…”

  He paused, giving Shaklin a look of great empathy. “I understand there was more than one death involved in Gregor’s activities,” he said.

  Tears welled in Shaklin’s eyes. He nodded. “Yes…” his voice almost broke. He steeled himself. “At least one,” he said.

  “Her name?” Sten asked.

  “You obviously know about it,” Shaklin said.

  Sten nodded. “Pegatha, right?” he said. “Your friend.”

  “Yes. She was my…friend,” Shaklin said. “Her death was listed as an accident. But Gregor might as well have killed her himself.”

  “If that’s the case,” Sten said, “he may very well face a firing squad.”

  Shaklin knuckled an eye. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you to him.”

  As the navigator led them down the passageway, it gave Sten no joy to think what an accomplished liar he had become.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  GREGOR’S DILEMMA

  Gregor braced himself when he heard the footsteps approach the cabin door. The mutineers had kept him deaf and blind in this little room. But his guards had been so keyed up the past few hours he knew that something was about to break.

  When the door whooshed open he was half expecting to see whoever the Emperor had sent to negotiate with his captors, and he had all his best lies at the ready.

  He saw Shaklin first, which was a surprise. He’d expected Zheng or Rual. And then he saw a squat, tubby man with a round bearded face. He wore lieutenant bars on the shoulders of his Imperial Navy uniform.

  A lieutenant? He couldn’t imagine that the Emperor had sent a mere lieutenant to negotiate the release of such a valuable cargo.

  Then he saw the third man. He was a little taller than the lieutenant, but not by much. He was built like gymnast, and he was dark, with sharp features and fiery eyes. It was a familiar face, but it wasn’t until he saw the sardonic half-grin and heard the voice that full recognition dawned.

  “Hello, Gregor,” the man said.

  “You!” he said. “Sten!”

  “In the flesh,” Sten said.

  Gregor stabbed a finger at the captain’s bars on Sten’s shoulders.

  “How…how…” he gobbled. Then envy overtook him. This was so unfair.

  “But, you…you…you…were a nobody,” he said.

  “And you thought you were a somebody,” Sten said. “And look where it got you.”

  Shaklin was puzzled. “You know each other?” he asked.

  “We were in basic training together,” Sten said. “He was always bragging about what an important person his father was.”

  “Ah ken the bugger washed out,” Alex said.

  “You heard right,” Sten said.

  Shaklin looked at Sten, sudden doubt in his eyes. “He said you were a nobody. Surely, the Emperor didn’t send someone of low importance to negotiate with us.”

  “He didn’t,” Sten said. “If you look at my credentials again you’ll see that my uncle is Admiral Mik Ledoh. Until recently I was his flag lieutenant.”

  Gregor snorted derision. “Liar!” he said. “You acted like you were just one of the guys. And here you were lying to us the whole time and had a clotting admir
al to back your act. Why, you were a made man the minute you joined up. No wonder Lanzotta was always singing your praises.”

  Sten turned to Shaklin. “You don’t want to hear any of this garbage,” he said. “Besides, for the purposes of this court martial report, we have to interview the suspect in private.”

  “Court martial?” Gregor cried. “Suspect?”

  Kilgour reached over and swatted the back of his head. It appeared to be just a light tap, but Gregor nearly fell off his bunk.

  “Shut it,” Kilgour explained.

  Gregor shut it. Shaklin couldn’t help the huge grin that spread across his face.

  “Call me when you’re ready,” he said.

  And he exited, confident that he was leaving Gregor in hostile hands. Within minutes every being aboard the ship had a good chuckle when they heard about the slap.

  When he was gone, Gregor said, “They’re not really going to court martial me are then?” Rubbing the back of his head, he added, “I mean, I’m the victim here.”

  “First off,” Sten said, “you still have a big clotting mouth, and if you want to get out this in one piece you’ll start shutting it.”

  Gregor nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “Second,” Sten said, “You ought to know that any captain who loses his ship for any reason must face a court martial.”

  “But—” Gregor started to protest.

  Alex raised a meaty hand, and the protest died a quick death.

  “Naturally, with your old man being such a hot shot,” Sten said, “you’ll not only get off, but you’ll probably end up with a medal.”

  Gregor nodded vigorously. “Gotcha,” he said. “It’s all an act.”

  “We have express orders to bring you home alive and well,” Sten said. “So get that worry out of your head and start cooperating.”

  “Done and done,” Gregor said.

  Sten fished a small box out of his pocket. He opened it, revealing an even smaller box nestled in soft material.

  “This is a special com unit,” Sten said, “courtesy of your old man. It’s a direct link to him. And he wants to talk to you privately—and I stress privately—at your first opportunity.”

  Gregor took it.

  “An don’t be rattlin’ oan to yer Da’loch a lass pratlin’ to ’er mates,” Alex warned. “Or yoo’ll tip yer hand to Mr. Toad Face and his boyos.”

  “Okay, I got all that,” Gregor said. “But what’s your plan for getting me the clot out of here?”

  His confidence was returning now that he knew that his influential father was close. He tilted his head, and Sten recognized that look of arrogance that used to drive him and the rest of the barracks mad.

  Although Kilgour hadn’t been around then, he must have caught it too, because his hand shot out and—whap!—he swatted the back of Gregor’s head.

  This time Gregor fell to the floor. “Hey!” he cried. “What was that for?”

  “Ye hae the look ay th’ son of a huir abit ye, laddie,” Kilgour said. “That’s what’s for.”

  Gregor started to protest, then thought better of it.

  “Sorry,” he said, not meaning a syllable of it, and climbed back onto his bunk.

  “Now that we have that settled,” Sten said, “here’s what is going to happen. When we leave here, we’ll signal your father and he’ll get in touch with you. I understand he has specific instructions.”

  “Uh, can I ask—” he stopped, glancing at Kilgour to see if he’d broken some rule. Alex nodded, and so he continued. “Quick question. Will you be able to listen in when I speak to my father.”

  “Of course, not,” Sten lied. “Your father requested complete privacy, and our techs made sure that you have it.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Alex plant a couple more bugs just to make sure that nothing Gregor said or did would be missed.

  “Now, when we get back to our ship we’ll get further instructions from the brass,” Sten said. “Then we’ll continue our negotiations. If they agree, we have ships standing by to take control of the space-train, and you’ll soon be in a nice comfortable cabin and on your way home.”

  “And if they don’t agree?” Gregor sounded worried.

  Sten shrugged. “It’ll take a little longer to get the upper hand, is all,” he said. “In the end it will work out the same.”

  “Okay, then,” Gregor said. “I’ll be waiting to hear from my father. And then from you.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Sten said and he turned to rap on the door.

  “Wait a minute,” Gregor said.

  Sten paused, giving him a quizzical look. “Yes?”

  “Did you guys, uh, bring me anything to eat?”

  Kilgour muttered a curse and almost hit him again, but Gregor jumped back out of range.

  “They’ve been feeding me nothing but drakh,” he whined. “I’m clotting dying in here from food poisoning.”

  “I’ll speak to them,” Sten said, and then he rapped on the door.

  It was another lie, which delighted Sten to no end when he thought about the good laugh his old barracksmates would have if they had witnessed Gregor getting well-deserved paybacks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THE NEGOTIATIONS

  A few hours later, Sten and Alex finished interviewing a dozen crewmembers, hearing one tale of woe after another.

  And Gregor was at the black-hearted core of every tale.

  They ranged from the petty—one crew member had, in his words, “cut a stinky pratt” in the control room in Gregor’s presence and got a month in the brig for his offense—to the more serious: another crew member was forced to hand over her pay directly to Gregor for a solid year for queering a black market deal—to outright cruelty: a crewmember who wasn’t moving fast enough during an exercise lost her eyesight when Gregor failed to close a valve controlling a fluorine feed on time. Everyone believed the act was deliberate.

  Sten, who had lost his family in an incident involving fluorine, was particularly angered by the last.

  The final person they interviewed was Shaklin, who told them every damning detail about the death of his lover, Pegatha, brought about by Gregor’s malfeasance.

  They sat in his cabin while he told the tale as manfully as possible, eyes brimming, voice shaking, beaded dreadlocks atremble, but he never shed a tear. And when he was done the three sat in silence for long minutes.

  Finally, Shaklin asked: “Tell me the truth. Will he really face a court martial?”

  “He will,” Sten said, hoping this would not turn out to be a lie.

  “But, what about his father?” Shaklin pressed. “He’s an important man. A rich man. With rich and powerful friends. Gregor says his father is tight with the Emperor.”

  Sten made a derisive noise. He said, “The Emperor would like nothing more than to see Gregor and his old man skinned alive. This whole thing has been an incredible embarrassment to him, and he wants it shut down as quickly as possible before the embarrassment becomes public knowledge.”

  Shaklin sighed. “That’s sounds too good to be true,” he said. “In my whole life I’ve never known real justice.”

  “Well, this time you are going to get it,” Sten said. He paused, then added, “But we’ll need your help to bring it off.”

  Shaklin’s eyebrows rose. “Help?”

  Sten said, “Zheng and Rual appear as mentally stable as a pair of Xypacas on a starvation diet.”

  “That’s no understatement,” Shaklin said.

  “With them running things,” Sten said, “a sneeze could send this whole enterprise off the rails. If that happens, the Emperor will send Mantis teams to track down you, your people, and everyone else aboard the Flame. No one will ever see the inside of a courtroom. Clot, they won’t even find themselves in marked graves. We’re t
alking cut throats all around and bodies shunted into space.”

  Shaklin shuddered. “I’ve heard of things like that,” he said. “But I thought they were just tales.”

  “They’re not tales,” Sten said. “The point is, the last thing you want is to get yourself on the Eternal Emperor’s enemies list. Someone once told me that if someone really drakhs him off, he’ll set aside five minutes every day to think about that shitepoke until he seals his fate.”

  “In other words, lad,” Kilgour said, “if it’s justice yer wantin’ for wee Pegatha, yer gonna hae to help us.”

  Shaklin took a deep breath. Then nodded.

  “How?” he asked.

  Sten produced a small clear plas box and handed it over. “Here’s a com unit,” he said. “A direct link to us. It’s shielded from all other com units on the ship, so it can’t be interfered with by outside sources.”

  Shaklin tucked the box away.

  Sten said, “If things look like they are going to go sideways, give us shout. And we’ll do the same for you.”

  “Got it,” Shaklin said.

  Sten added, “The main thing is, you have to keep Gregor safe long enough for us to get our hands on him. Without Gregor, there can be no court martial. And without a court martial, there will be no justice because the blame will fall squarely on you and your shipmates.”

  Alex put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “’Tis th’ onliest way ye’ll get yer revenge, laddie,” he said. “And th’ onliest way you and yer mates’ll be safe.”

  Shaklin wiped moisture from his eyes, made a grim smile, then he led them back to the control room where Zheng and the others waited.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE OFFER

  The atmosphere crackled with tension. The crewmembers were gathered in small muttering groups. Zheng was sprawled in a gravchair, toadish face flushed with drink. Rual stood behind the chair, toying with her long knife.

  They all looked up when Sten, Alex and Shaklin entered.

  “Took your clottin’ time,” Rual snarled, waving the knife about.

  “Patient long enough, ve haf been,” Zheng said, swinging around to plant his feet on the floor.